One more down.

But these weren’t green recruits who’d make many sloppy and fatal mistakes. What she was facing were trained and seasoned soldiers, and it was still seven against one.

She envisioned the fire, sending it rippling down the sword Glenna had charmed. “Yeah, come on. Come on!” Hacking out, she sent one falling back, his arm ablaze.

Then went flying as one caught her foot on the next kick and hurled her into the air. She slammed hard into the trunk of a tree, saw stars floating on a gray field edged with sickly red. But the one that charged her met fire and steel, and fell screaming into the trap.

She rolled, and with pain bursting through her, struck out with the flaming sword. Her left arm was numb from the shoulder down, and she’d lost the stake. She hacked, thrust, sliced, took a hard punch to the face that nearly sent her into the trap. She managed to spring over it, fight for footing. And with vicious, screaming blows, beat back the next attack.

One went for her throat, so she cracked the hilt of the sword on the bridge of his nose. She felt the chain that held her crosses snap as he fell back.

No stake, no cross. And five of them left. She wasn’t going to make it, no longer hoped she could hold them back until Larkin got to her to even the odds.

So she wouldn’t die in the valley, but here and now. But by God, she’d take as many as she could with her first so that when Larkin came for her, he could finish the rest.

Her left arm was nearly useless, but she still had her feet, and kicked up, kicked out as she sliced out fire. They’d weakened her, breaking her form, her rhythm. She blocked an oncoming sword, but the tip of it scored a line down her thigh on the down swing. Her slight stumble left her open enough so that when another kicked, the blow plowed into her belly, stealing her breath as her body flew back.

She went down hard, felt something tear inside her. With what she had left, she thrust up blindly, had the grim satisfaction of seeing one burst into flame.

Then the sword was knocked out of her hand, and she had nothing left.

How many left? she wondered. Three? Maybe three. Larkin could take three. He’d be all right. Head swimming, she struggled back to her feet. She didn’t want to die on her back. She fisted her hands, fought to get her balance.

Maybe, maybe she could take one more, just one more, bare-handed, before they killed her.

But they’d stepped back, she saw. Three? Four? Her vision was doubling on her. But she willed it to focus, and saw Lora glide over the ground.

Weren’t going to kill me, Blair thought dimly. Just working me over, wearing me down. Saving me for her. Worse than death, she realized as her blood went cold. She wondered if she could find a weapon and a way to end her own life before Lora made her a monster.

If she could manage it, she might be able to throw herself into the trap. Better staked than changed.

“I’m so impressed.” Clapping her hands together lightly, Lora smiled. “You defeated seven of our seasoned warriors. I’ve lost a bet with Lilith. I wagered you’d take out no more than four.”

“Happy to help you lose.”

“Well, you did have a slight advantage. They were ordered not to kill you. That pleasure will be mine.”

“You think?”

“Know. And that coat? I’ve admired that coat since I first saw you on the side of the road in Ireland. It’s going to look marvelous on me.”

“So that was you? Sorry, all of you smell the same to me.”

“I can say the same about you mortals.” Lora beamed out a g*y smile. “Speaking of mortals, I have to say your Jeremy was absolutely delicious.” Still smiling, she touched her fingertips to her lips, flicked them out as if reliving the moment.

Don’t think about Jeremy, Blair ordered herself. Don’t give her the satisfaction. So she said nothing, meeting Lora’s laugh with stony silence.

“But where are my manners? We’ve met, of course, but haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Lora, and I’ll be your sire.”

“Blair Murphy, and I’ll be the one dusting you. And the coat looks better on me than it would on you.”

“You’re going to be the most delightful playmate! I can hardly wait. Because I have admiration and respect for you, we’ll fight this out. Just you and I.” Lora pointed a finger toward the trio of soldiers, wagged it. “Back, back, back now. This is between us girls.”

“So, you want to fight?” Think, think, think, Blair ordered herself. Think over the pain. “Swords, knives, hand-to-hand?”

“I do love bare hands.” Lora lifted hers, wiggled her fingers. “It’s so intimate.”

“Works for me.” Blair spread her coat open to show she had no weapons. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Bien sur.”

“Is that accent real, or do you just put it on?” She unhooked the water bottle from her belt.

“I was born in Paris, in the year fifteen-eighty-five.”

Blair let out a snort. “Come on.”

“All right,” Lora said with a laugh, “fifteen-eighty-three. But what woman doesn’t fudge a little about her age?”

“You were younger than me when you died.”

“Younger when I was given true life.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective.” Blair lifted the water sack, twisted it open. “Mind? Your boys gave me quite a workout. Feeling a little dehydrated.”

“Be my guest.”

Blair tipped the bag back, drank. The water felt like a miracle on her dry throat. “If I take you, are your boys going to finish me off?”

“You won’t take me.”

Blair angled her head, said a quick prayer. “Bet?”

And swung the bag so the blessed water splashed over Lora’s face and throat.

The screams were like rusty razors slicing through Blair’s brain. There was smoke, the nasty stench of burning flesh. She stumbled away from it as Lora ran shrieking.

A weapon, Blair thought, fighting to see, just to stay on her feet. Everything, anything was a weapon.

She grabbed a low branch of the tree as much for support as a last-ditch effort. Calling on whatever she had left she pulled at it, felt it crack. With something between a sob and a scream, she swung it at the three vampires who charged toward her.

The dragon dived out of the sky, tail lashing. Blair saw one of them fly headfirst into the trap as the man stood, drawing the sword from the harness that spilled around his feet.